


Likenesses

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic, Retirement, a little bit meta, references to artwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A certain self-portrait answers a long-unasked question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Likenesses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tweedisgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedisgood/gifts).



> Written for JWP #24: Picture Prompt ([Self-Portrait of Horace Vernet](http://www.the-athenaeum.org/art/full.php?ID=87339), Holmes' great-grand-uncle in ACD canon)
> 
>   
>  **Warnings** : Retirement-era fic with slash goggles present and accounted for, but could be read as gen if you're really minded to. Speculation around the source of inspiration of Sidney Paget's illustrations of Watson's - er, ACD's - stories in The Strand. **And absolutely no beta.** This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.
> 
>   
>  **Additional Author's Notes:** Yesterday, [**tweedisgood**](http://tweedisgood.livejournal.com/) asked "Do you think Holmes went bald?" That question inspired this - and so this story can be considered utter Tweed-bait.  
> 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The exhibition was something of a mixed affair. Some of the paintings had very little in common with their wall-fellows other than the country of origin and the lending institution. But most of them were very fine nonetheless, and it had been several months since I'd had any sort of opportunity to enjoy the cultural opportunities available in town. The countryside is a haven, but sometimes a little dull after a majority of a lifetime spent in London.  
  
I paused to admire a fine pastoral scene. My companion huffed and rolled his eyes, having no patience for rosy-cheek milkmaids, placid cattle, or bucolic barns.  
  
"You can go on ahead, Holmes," I told him in a low voice, respectful of the other gallery patrons. "I have my cane, and my leg is behaving well today." I had severely twisted my ankle almost two months previously, slipping on an icy patch while walking into the village. I did not heal as rapidly as I did in our younger days, but I was nearly recovered now.  
  
In answer, Holmes settled my hand rather more firmly on his arm. "That may be, dear fellow, but I have more than enough to amuse me here." He angled his head towards a fashionably-dressed young lady flanked by a formidable matron. "For example, those two must have travelled over half of London given the myriad traces on their clothes. And the elder is hardly the strict guardian she tries to portray if she's allowing her charge to roam into that particular part of -"  
  
I nudged him warningly as the two women moved nearer. "Holmes!" Hastily, I stepped towards the next painting on the wall. My friend had the audacity to grin knowingly at me. I feigned annoyance, but in truth I was too happy to put on even half a pretense. I had worried that the visit to London – our city, but more importantly, _Holmes’_ city, as it had been but no longer was – might bring on one of his black moods as he observed all the changes. I had seen it happen before. But today he showed nothing but excellent spirits that made his still-keen eyes sparkle.  
  
We moved on to the next wall, and I spotted the picture that had particularly piqued my curiosity when I saw the notice of the exhibition. Holmes noticed my interest immediately, and naturally turned to look at what had caught my attention. I felt his arm muscles tense with surprise under my hand, and his mouth dropped open slightly as he read the card next to the oil painting.  
  
There was a similarity in the length of the painted face, and the nose ended in a familiar tip, but truthfully, the pipe-smoking man in the painting did not look like my friend. He was a much smaller individual, with broad, stubby hands and tiny feet, and much less handsome than my Holmes. Yet there was a cynical, knowing look in the eye that I knew well, and I almost expected to see a matching curl of the lip. However, the bushy moustache – of a sort I knew Holmes could never grow, although I had seen him put on false ones that came close – hid the mouth.  
  
There was a marked resemblance to someone else, however, and I saw the moment Holmes realized it. I could count the number of times I had managed to truly surprise Holmes on the fingers of one hand.  
  
“I had always wondered where that fellow found his inspiration for the fanciful illustrations that adorn some of your romantic tales,” Holmes said at last. “He was too consistent for pure imagination, so I theorized he either used a mirror for his inspiration, or perhaps a brother or cousin. But evidently you must have told him of the connection long before you published that particular account.”  
  
“He asked about your ancestry, and I mentioned the name,” I confessed. “He was very excited. He claimed he had seen a self-portrait of the artist while travelling as a young man.” I watched Holmes, trying to gauge his reaction now that his initial surprise had passed.  
  
“It certainly explains the hairline.”  
  
“Yes. Which is nothing like yours.” The man in the picture had reddish-brown hair with a dramatically receding hairline. The latter characteristic had been consistent in his illustrations of ‘Holmes’ from the start, but was thankfully nothing like _my_ Holmes’ still-thick, full head of hair. It was liberally laced with silver these days, but otherwise undiminished.  
  
My friend smiled, probably hearing more in my words than anyone else possibly could. He knew how fond I was of his hair, just as I knew how much he liked it when I ran my fingers through it and stroked his temples. That was a secret none but we two would ever know, one we kept in our hearts with all the rest.  
  
“No, nothing like. I seem to recall that the difference startled a few of our clients, who only knew of me from your stories.” His smile deepened into that rare, thin-lipped, genuine one he rarely showed anyone else. “And it also fooled many a miscreant who thought he ‘knew’ what I looked like. All in all, a more than fair trade. Even if your readers _do_ imagine that I must be bald by now.”  
  
“Never,” I assured him. “You are unchanging and immortal, at least in literature.”  
  
“How convenient, at least for that me,” Holmes murmured. “However, real flesh and blood is another matter, and just now I think we could both do with a meal before we return to our hotel.” A certain gleam appeared in his eye, and vanished almost as quickly, but I had seen it – and he knew I had. “Shall we, my dear boy?”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 24, 2013.
> 
> The artists referenced in this story are Horace Vernet (the man in the self-portrait) and Sidney Paget (the most famous of the illustrators of the Holmes stories in The Strand Magazine). Paget's drawings of Holmes show a man with noticeable signs of male-pattern baldness, much as seen in the self-portrait of Vernet, his great-grand-uncle.


End file.
